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The Crow's Call

high above the entranced bowers Romeo hangs entwined in vines of flowers


round thy neck one leapless fall from slippery stone dost thou find resolve


dost thou treading airwaves flicker kicking foot by foot to grasp at imaginary


towered treads for a moments linger for a second breath would be enough


would be enough to live again for a moment s recollection for a second guess


at the dagger's point the holy blood dripping from the freshly sharpened blade


needst thou only to return to the altar made for the date, to then cut the vine


and desecrate the sacred art, it is a death of a drop made to be, falling deeply


down the mainsail swiftly breezing Pan catches himself dosing off in fields forgot


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